


The Trickster's Shadow

by dirthamen



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, In Medias Res, M/M, Teen and Up for profanity, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirthamen/pseuds/dirthamen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> You know, one good thing about the Breach is how it brings people together. <i></i></i>
</p>
<p>The explosion at the Conclave proves deadly for all but one of its attendants. Within moments, Riva becomes the religious symbol of a foreign faith, the voice of the very prophet in whose name her people were slaughtered seven centuries ago. As a founding member of the Inquisition and the only one with the ability to seal the demon-pouring rifts that ravage Thedas, she and her companions embark on a mission to close the breach in the sky, once and for all.<br/>The once proud wolf roams southern Orlais in search of a way to bring back the gods he himself banished, broken and distraught, when he comes across an enigmatic figure.<br/>Set during 9:41 Dragon and shortly after the ending of Inquisition.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I ran that day, for miles and miles, until the soles of my boots were worn and my legs weary. I don't know where I was; whether in the real word or the Fade, all I knew was that I had to run.

Eyes, huge and red, slanted, hollow, fearsome, full of regret and sorrow. Eyes starring, countless eyes, rage burning in their reflection, jaws strong and merciless. Too many eyes, watching. And I was lost, again, but this time there was no one there to save me. This time I was truly alone, and the eyes knew it. The sounds, the sights, the smells, they all blended in a hazy mist and the ground felt unsteady and slippery under my feet. This time no one would stand by my side. This time no one would whisper reassuring words in my ear. This time no one would meet me on the other side.

Dark wings cast their shadow all over me, treacherous whispers, dagger twisting, dripping with poison, fire burning hot and spreading, desperate screams, the end, all has fallen.

It all came back like a giant wave, violently hitting me on the face and throwing me back, dazed and confused but all the same time all the more wise. And at that moment I wished I never remembered.


	2. The Corrupt and the Wicked

He was half a head taller than he and broad shouldered, with hair black as the night sky and eyes crimson gold, slightly hooded and striking to behold, dark red in their irises' outer corner and fiery amber on the inside. His skin was the colour of ice, his nose long, straight and delicate, adorning his narrow, angular face marked by Dirthamen's vallaslin, vaguely familiar. Or perhaps not; after all he had met more than his fair share of people during his lifetime, one that spanned thousands and thousands of years, making faces and names blur in his head. He was dressed in black leather beneath a woollen hooded cape, secured to his vest by two silver clasps. A shady man, likely an assassin, seeing as he favoured the god of secrets.

“Andaran atish'an traveller.” he greeted him in a low, smooth voice.

Solas nodded. “Andaran atish'an. Ma serannas, ma melava halani.” he replied. Behind the man's calm demeanour hid a dangerous side, that much was obvious, from his posture, facial expression, movements and even his clothes. He, much like him, did not want to be noticed. The Dalish were known for their short temper and dislike for strangers; he would have to be careful not to provoke him. His clan might be camped nearby. However, he hadn't noticed any aravel wheel marks, or smoke from a campfire.  _Assuming he was here alone, then, what was he looking for?_  he wondered.

The man lifted the corner of his mouth in a sly smile, as he pulled an arrow from the giant spider's lifeless body.

“Appalling critters, are they not? Too much hair and too many legs and eyes for my liking. I wonder, sometimes, what purpose they could possibly serve.”

“Whatever purpose do we serve?”

“Whichever one we choose.”

At that Solas did not reply, for those words echoed the advice of another.

_We're not bound to some fate, Solas. We are free to do as we please, only the catch is, we have to live with the consequences of our actions._

She had proved once more that, despite her years, she was far wiser than him. He was a fool to believe that the orb had changed her.

 “Again, I thank you for your aid.” Solas said and rubbed his forehead, frowning, desperately trying to dispel her image from his head.

“Of course. However, you should be more careful where you lay your head.”

“Indeed.” he paused, before continuing.

 “You are far from any town or village.” he remarked.

“So are you.” the stranger replied, simply, his voice not betraying any emotion.

“Ah, but I'm a hedge mage, as the staff across my back indicates. I've been studying this area for a while now.”

“I haven't seen any Dalish encampments nearby.” Solas continued.

“You are correct. There aren't any.”

The man paused and looked at him inquisitively.

“Tell me, falon” he said, emphasising on the last word wryly, “what is it about this place you find so interesting?”

Solas decided to tell a half truth. “I am searching for artefacts of my people.”A vague answer would have to do. He could not reveal to a stranger what he was truly looking for.

The orbs, the foci, the vessels of divine power. That was the object of his tireless research, the promise of a new future for the People, and for that he had paid the heaviest price. His progress was slow, as his concentration more than often faltered, memories of her flooding his head, distracting him, torturing him endlessly and most cruelly. A battle had been raging in his head for months. He had tempted himself with the thought of telling her more than once, dying to confide in her, to reveal his terrible secret. But his fear and pride always prevailed, and his lips remained sealed. This wasn't a simple choice he was called to make; if he told her, the effect would be irreversible. What if she despised who he was, or worse, was afraid of him? Those few words, behind which his identity lurked, dormant and hidden from view, could cause their entire relationship to crumble. But wouldn't the other path lead to the same destination?

 _No. It would be kinder in the long run_. 

Who was he to make decisions for another?  _Pride, blinded, hurting, selfish._  He should never have indulged in his foolish infatuation with her. She who was bright like the stars, the silent arrow ripping through the wind, the graceful assassin. She, for whom he almost gave up everything. A mortal woman above the fate of his people. His mind was losing its edge with age and his slumber had affected both his judgement and convictions. But she was unlike anyone, shemlen or elvhen, she was so dear to him he would let go of his plan to be at her side once more. He should have stayed. But had he done so, Mythal would have never forgiven him. Nor would he himself.

The man ran his hand through his loose black waves that ended at his nape. Tangled and sticking together, they looked like they hadn't been washed for some time.

“You are not Dalish, however. I admire your effort.”

“Oh? You do not think of me as a flat-ear, then?”

“No.”

The man observed him silently for a few moments.

“I am Dirtharel.” he said.

His name sent a shiver down his spine.  _Speaking of treachery._  At least that's what  _he_  thought it meant.  _Speaking of rebellion. The Herald of Rebellion._

“I am...Felassan.” he stated, eventually.

He was Solas no more, not since he left her, not since he made his final, his worst mistake. He kept referring to himself as such, still, out of habit, yes, but mostly because that was what she called him. He could almost hear her voice, here in the waking world, he could almost see her lips forming the word; Solas.

And besides, he could not introduce himself as such. Far too many people had heard that name, and this man could quite possible be one of Nightingale's spies.

The man smiled again.

 _Why is he smiling?_  Solas wondered. It was a playful, reassuring smile, coming from a stranger.

“You worship Dirthamen?” he suddenly asked, perhaps to distract himself from the thought of her.

“Dirthamen is the night, quiet and reserved. Dirthamen is silence, absence of words and a thousand meanings. Dirthamen is wisdom, Dirthamen is thought, calculated action. Dirthamen is loyalty, Dirthamen knows but never tells, the Keeper of Secrets, but Dirthamen never lies.”

Solas shook his head. That was not the Dirthamen he remembered. Always in the shadows, always watching, never acting. Like he never existed.

“Do you favour a god, falon?”

“Mythal.” he said, and his answer surprised him. It shouldn't have. Mythal, the All-Mother, the goddess of love. A true goddess worthy of her people, not the wretched creature he was.  _An abomination past salvation._

“Ah yes. Mythal, the Great Protector. You know, they say Dirthamen was most like Mythal, and his twin, Falon'din mostly resembled his father.”

“I would not associate Dirthamen with compassion.”

“That's where you're wrong, friend.” he paused for a moment, most likely to think, before continuing.

“You look weary. Would you care to join me for lunch?”

“I'm afraid I have to decline, I-”

The shady man lowered his voice to nothing more than a whisper.

“You should come with me if you have any regard for your life.” he said in a snake-like hiss. “There's a deer in the shadows, an unlikely assassin but as deadly as a sharpened dagger, blinded by the light of dawn, ready to strike, judgement clouded by fury.”

When Solas did not answer, Dirtharel nodded at him to follow.

“I see what others don't. Garas. We should not linger here. There are things hidden in the shadows of this land, things waiting to strike and devour you whole, things you wouldn't begin to guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Andaran atish'an: Elven greeting (formal)  
> Falon: Friend  
> Garas: Come  
> Ma serannas, ma melava halani: My thanks, you helped me  
> Shemlen: Human


	3. The Lights in the Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * snipets of Riva's memories, from the moment she awoke in Haven up until before "In Your Heart Shall Burn" *

_As there is but one world,_ _one life, one death_

_There is_ _but one god, and He is our Maker_

_They are sinners, who have given their love_

_To false gods_ _._

The Chantry was quiet, save for the lay sisters' rhythmic chanting. She liked to spend time there, occasionally talking to Mother Gisele, but she could feel their eyes on her. Fixed, suspicious, cold. The Herald of Andraste. An elf. An insult to the very principles of the Andrastian faith.

 She was no chosen one, that she knew. Her mind still struggled to piece together what had happened at the temple of Sacred Ashes, but her guess was as good as any. Somehow, something happened during that explosion.  _Somehow, something happened that placed this mark upon my hand_. Alexius had called her a mistake, that she was never meant to be. Something had gone wrong with this Elder One's plan, because it clearly did not involve her undoing his handiwork. Time magic. Opening a gateway to the Fade. All kinds of weird shit were happening nowadays.

_And we thought it was bad eleven years ago, with that barely-there blight!_

She wondered where the legendary Hero of Ferelden was. The infamous Elven Queen. Surely she could shove this...fade magic bullshit up this Elder One's wrinkled ass. She faced an archdemon...and lived. There was no one alive in Thedas who could make such a claim. But surely, if she wanted to be found, Leliana's spies would have located her by now.

_They're stuck with me_ , she realised,  _and hell if I know what I'm doing._

The sound of heavy rain hitting the stained glass windows was soothing. She found it was quite the pleasant break from the constant blizzards. The strong scent of incense in the air was tingling, but relaxing and felt familiar and safe, like a home she never had.

She had awoken in a cold and damp dungeon that stank of an assortment of fairly unpleasant smells she couldn't quite make out, many weeks ago. She vividly remembered the loud voice of the sun-kissed woman that made her ears ring, whose name she soon found out to be Cassandra, threatening her, pulling her chains, breathing hot air onto her ear. She was confused then, and in great pain, having just discovered the  _glowy-thing_ , as Sera called it, on her left palm. Cassandra had hastily led her outside, the bright light blinding her and bringing hot tears in her eyes upon looking at that sickly-green horror in the sky for the first time. She promised to help – for what other choice did she have – and followed the heavy-armoured woman outside the temporary camp.

The Conclave. Divine Justinia. The mages and templars. All dead. All gone, but her.

 She found a bow and a couple of arrows near a corpse moments after spotting a demon heading her way. Exhausted as she was, she fought alongside Cassandra, for what other choice did she have?

***

"Quickly! Before more come through!" the elf shouted and grabbed her hand, before she had time to react, placing it before the rift in a swift motion.

The rift was gone.

Beardless dwarf with crossbow. Fancy fellow. Elven mage, dressed in plain, almost ragged clothes, no valasslin, bald. This one proved more challenging to decipher.

"What did you do?" she asked as she pulled her hand away from his.

"I did nothing. The credit is yours."

He spoke like a man far above his station. Who was he?

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions."

_Curious name._

***

Redcliffe. The village that stood against the Blight, against undead and demons alike. That small, insignificant place that marked the rise of the Hero of Ferelden. And it was, yet again, whether by fate or chance, brought to the centre of this massive torrent of events. Grand Enchanter Fiona had invited them to the castle, in order to arrange an alliance between the Inquisition and the Mages. After the farce that was Val Royeaux, she was more than happy to accept. Though no mage herself, she understood – though not openly supported – their rebellion. No one deserves to be deprived of their freedom, whether it is in a rusty prison or a gilded cage. When they arrived, however, Varric, Solas and she (for Cassandra would not be an appropriate choice for such a mission), things were very unlike what Fiona had described. The mages had allied with Tevinter, some willingly and some out of fear and necessity.

Fiona, an elf, selling herself and her brethren to the snakes. She shuddered at the thought and found it hard to believe.

She denied ever inviting her to Redcliffe, or in fact ever being at the Orlesian capital, with an honest and earnest face. _That did not bode well._

They were to meet at _The Gull and Lantern_ , the local tavern. It was exceedingly loud; laughing and cursing and singing and she could feel a headache coming on. She was thirsty for a drink, but decided against it, particularly when she spotted the figure of a magister.

Just as she had guessed, the mages were slaves of the Imperium in all but name. _Bloody idiots_ , she thought. There seemed to be no way out of this mess they'd put themselves into, which meant she'd have to contact the templars and fucking Lord Seeker Asshole. It appeared that Solas was thinking of the same thing, as she shook his head in disappointment when their eyes met.

But then, the magister's son collapsed, in a rather dramatic fashion, and she felt a hand reaching for her pocket.

A note. _Come to the Chantry. You are in danger._

***

Flashy. Too flashy. Clothes, expensive. Perfume; subtle but lingering; distinctly masculine. Well-trimmed mustache, few and faint wrinkles across his forehead – scholar; smart; hours studying.

He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she had even seen.

Tevinter scum, of course. The worse kind of shem. Then why would he turn against his own? Was it a trap? Yes, a trap but she didn't know how.

Not like Alexius. Now that was some Tevinter shit alright. That air of superiority was the first thing you saw. Alarmingly similar to another in their company.

“Fascinating! How does that work exactly? You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes!”

She couldn't decide whether he was being condescending, simply making a joke, or both. She appreciated his wit however, but remained wary of him. He was a magister after all, and he and his ancestors were to blame for many of the woes of her people. They thrived when her people bled, and they were the only nation in all of Thedas to uphold slavery. She all but spat to his face.

_Why would they want to help a knife-ear?_

***

As she walked through the corridors of Redcliffe castle alongside Dorian, everything seemed as if it was pulled from some dreadful nightmare.

_Time travel_ , he had said.

_It's not simply where - it's when._

He appeared to be fascinated by that realisation. She didn't share that notion. Of course, the man cared little about their companions, but she had come to care about them somewhat, the past two months. Varric, she liked a lot, funny and witty, always with a clever retort. She found the dwarf surprisingly similar to herself. Then, Solas, the inconspicuous apostate, with his quiet smugness. Expert of the Fade and all things magical. Fancier than what his clothes implied, but interesting nonetheless. She did not dislike him. He seemed to know a great deal and she liked asking questions. He did not deserve this. None of them did.

 

His eyes lit up upon seeing her. Eyes heavy with black circles, puffy and red, glowing with red lyrium. He was sickly pale and for the first time, he looked his age.

"...nan" he whispered, but she couldn't make out the word. Not that he would be making any sense at his state.

_Are you okay_ , she wanted to ask, but decided that was utterly foolish. The answer was right in front of her.

"I'm sorry", she said instead and proceeded to free him from his cell.

_We have to hurry. Prevent what should never have been. How did Redcliffe fall so fast? Where was the king of Ferelden? The Inquisition? Had they abandoned Solas and Varric to their fate?_

 

She soon got her answers. Without her, the world was doomed. Only then did she realise what a heavy burden she truly carried. Without her, there was no Thedas, only the Elder One, whoever that was.

This future was, partly, of her own making. Varric – consumed by lyrium, his worst fear, Solas too and Leliana...tortured beyond recognition, both in face and soul.

What had seemed like mere seconds was an entire year. A year that should never come to pass.

Grand Enchanter Fiona. The instigator of the Mage Rebellion and the world's greatest screw-up. What was she thinking, allying with Tevinter? Puppets of the Elder One, the whole lot of them. For that foolish choice, hundreds of innocent souls had died. But now they had names: Varric, Solas, Leliana. They would die so that she and Dorian could go back and prevent this horrific future from ever dawning.

_Maybe if I'd chosen Cassandra– No._ _She would have broken all the same. They broke Solas's resolve._ His eyes were tired still, but fixed on her. She flashed him a reassuring smile.

_I'm sorry_ , she wanted to say but she bit her lip.

_What good would that do?_

His eyes were sorrowful, ashamed and full of regret.  _Why?_

_Ir abelas_ , she heard him whisper.

An unusually tall and stick figure-like demon; a Nightmare, threw his limp body across the hall, like a toy.

It was Leliana's turn and she'd seen too much death.

"You move and we all die!" the mage shouted.

She forced her body to run to the portal.

_I need a drink. Or three._

***

"Up for a game of Wicked Grace, Shadow?" Varric asked, as she rested her elbow on the tavern's counter and nodded at Flissa, the innkeeper.

_The usual. She knew._

Dorian was sitting alongside him, sipping his – no doubt – expensive wine, idly looking at the tavern's patrons, mostly Inquisition troops and some of Leliana's spies.

The Redcliffe incident had somewhat changed her mind about the magister. He seemed compassionate and respectful in the days after their journey back to their current timeline, and never spoke a word about all that they witnessed. He never addressed the fact that she was an elf, never treated her any differently because of it. _What a curious thing this magister was._ The black sheep among his own. _Yes._ She already enjoyed his company.

"You bet I am! Solas!" she yelled, stepping out of the tavern.

"You asked for me?" he responded to her call, from that little rocky hill he was standing on, facing the _Singing Maiden_ , gazing at the horizon, his thumb resting on his rather prominent chin.

"Well, I didn't ask, I yelled from a distance but you're here so that works I guess. Good! Come on! Wicked Grace. Dorian, Varric and Blackwall."

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"Yeah, right, save your cheap excuses for later. We need to get you some actual friends, that have, you know, physical bodies."

"I'm perfectly content with the friends I have, Herald."

By that time, Riva had climbed the few steps leading to the hill and was standing right beside him. Before he had time to react, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her.

"Oh come on! Don't be all like, _I don't like people, I like books_." she joked, putting on an old man's voice.

Solas seemed amused.

"Keep reading and your eyeballs are gonna fall off their sockets. You need a break, right?"

"Alright, I will attend, but only this once."

She flashed him her best smile and dragged him along with her, without leaving his wrist.

"Wait. Is Sera going to be there?"

"Haha. Yes."

***

She liked Haven. It was rather quaint, a tiny remote village on the arse-end of Ferelden, but it was nice. She was used to busy, sprawling cities like Val Royeaux and Denerim, the smell of chimneys and rat piss, perfume and meat, spices and sea salt blending together. She missed running from enraged nobles and wealthy merchants, jumping from roof to roof, the city her own grand playground.

_Fun times_ , she thought.

Whether she liked it or not, the mark had placed a responsibility upon her. On her hands - quite literally - lied the fate of the entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For those of you who got the Parks and Rec references, here's a ~~n internet~~ pride cookie.  
>  ** And yes, Riva says Tevinter, not Tevene. Whether she doesn't know she says it wrong, or does it on purpose remains a mystery.


	4. On Blacken'd Wings

_Wing flapping. Shit shit shit. Why did Orlesian horses have to be so damn slow?_

She had to warn them. Fucking archdemon flying circles above the Frostbacks. _What was an archdemon doing there? I thought we were past the fucking Blight!_ No matter, there was a dragon there with tattered wings, no normal dragon but a we're-in-deep-shit kind of dragon and this horse was so fucking slow, she should've bought a dragon instead. Then, she'd have a plan.

But no. It couldn't just be an archdemon. It _had_ to be worse. Fucking templars with lyrium growing out of them, the kind you see every day. A whole fucking army of them, marching north. But alas, it was even worse. See, this was not your standard, run-of-the-mill blue lyrium, no, this was red. Red. Lyrium. She had recently read a piece about this stuff, published after the discovery of a dwarven thaig in the Marches. She had read enough to know it was bad stuff. Fucking red lyrium.

So, there was an army of crazed, red-lyrium Templars behind her. Was it the lyrium, or where they always crazy? _No, focus. There, Haven is straight ahead. Ugh. So much snow. Is this normal? Snow and mud. Smells like dog. Everything smells like mud and shit and wet fur. Horses don't like snow. Yeah, that's why he's so slow. Cold, freezing, ugh. Come on, go faster you dumb horse, I don't want to be eaten by a dragon and spent my last minutes with a four-legged Orlesian._

She could see the gate clearly now. _Shit._ Some templars were already there, outside the fort, trying to break the gate. She was late. She was already there and the least she could do was prove herself useful. Then she saw something odd in the mass of armoured savages. A man in light clothes, face obscured by wide-brimmed hat. He killed most of them effortlessly, silently, before they could notice. One remained. She dismounted quietly and hid behind some crates.

"I can't come in unless you open!" he urged.

That was a boy's voice. _What the hell?_

The gates flung open and the boy rushed forward, driving his knife on the last templar's back. A woman rushed out of the fort, red hair, elven, dressed in boiled leather and a blond man in an odd-looking armour; a metal chestplate wrapped under red and gold cloth that fell just above his knees and a russet furry... _thing_ around his shoulders. His sword was drawn, but he stayed behind the woman. _The Herald of Andraste._

The boy in the hat spoke.

"I'm Cole. I came to warn you."

_You and me both fella._

"To help."

He moved closer towards the woman. "People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know-"

The elf interrupted him.

"What is this? What's going on?"

She sounded angry. Surprised. Worried.

"The Templars come to kill you."

The blond man stepped forward, his sword still drawn and his finger pointing at the boy, which caused him to take a few steps back, in fear.

"Templars!" he exclaimed. "Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?"

"The Red Templars went to the Elder One, you know him? He knows you, you took his mages. There." the boy said and turned to point with his outstretched arm to the mountains in the distance.

The blond man spoke once more but she couldn't quite make out what he said apart from two words.

"This Elder One..."

"He's very angry that you took his mages."

"Cullen, give me a plan! Anything!" the elf implored him.

"Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle."

_No shit, man!_

"Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can."

Then he turned to his soldiers and raised his voice.

"Mages! You — you have sanction to engage them! That is Samson! He will not make it easy! Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!" he said, thrusting his sword in the air.

As soon as he finished his speech, she stepped out of her hiding place and in front of them. It was a risky move, but necessary. She couldn't stay hidden behind those crates for much longer.

"Well, if you're quite done with your fancy speeches and heroic displays of courage, I'd like offer my aid as well."

The Herald was the one to react first.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked.

"I arrived here to warn you, but it seems I was both preceded and late. I apologise. Unfortunate circumstances delayed my arrival, such as this horse for example." she said and pointed at her exhausted horse licking a patch of snow a few feet away.

"That's where the horse came from!"

"Yes."

"The time and circumstances of your arrival are suspicious." Cullen said.

"So are his." she said, looking at the boy.

The elf looked at her inquisitively.

"Lady Herald, you couldn't possibly be considering-"

"No. We don't know you or your motivations. At least Cole here killed the templars outside the gates, instead of hiding. You can come back the way you came or stay outside and fight, but you're not taking one step towards the fort, I assure you."

_Shit. This is not going well._

"You can't just leave me here to die! I hid because of him, loony boy-assassin! Look, I came all this way, my lady, I-"

"I've made my decision and it's final. You still have time, if you run."

"No, damn it, no, listen you stubborn-headed – I mean my lady Herald, you-"

"Wait, Livia? Is that you? Oh my, it is you!"

_That voice. My knight in shining armour._

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

"Oh thank the Maker! Here I thought I'd be a mangled, raving walking corpse before dawn!"

Dorian stepped out of the gate, in long, white and brown Tevene robes, looking dashing as always.

_Trust Dorian to have perfect hair in the middle of a battle and robes without a single wrinkle or tear._

"You know her?" Cullen asked.

"Of course. Let her in, I can guarantee she's not affiliated with the templars or this Elder One."

"Very well" the elf said.

She grabbed her horse's rein and lead in inside the fort.

"Now, as far as introductions go, I'm afraid I skipped mine. Livia Pavus of Minrathous. I'll spare you the long list of my other names and titles if that's alright."

"Pavus? But that's-"

"Exactly. And that is precisely the reason why I came here. To warn my foolish brother of this attack."

"Oh Livia, aren't you a sweetheart!" Dorian chirped.

"Excited to see me?"

"That still doesn't explain how you know of this attack or how you arrived here so fast from...Minrathous."

"Ah, yes, as I was saying, I have not, in fact, been in Minrathous for several months, despite my title. I have been tracking down my brother for the past few weeks, who in turn has been after Gireon Alexius, as I'm quite sure you know. See, he got it in his head to join this Inquisition and I couldn't let him be father's only disappointment. Therefore, I am here, though under circumstances I did not predict. Oh and lest I forget! There's a dragon on its way. Archdemon actually, which makes little sense but nothing does anymore, with this green gaping hole in the sky. To sum up, this Elder One has an archdemon friend and we don't happen to have a massive Grey Warden army, do we now? We've got to get out of here and soon."

"Absolutely not." Cullen said.

"Oh crap, I knew you'd say that."


End file.
